Abandoned murals across the boarder, the walls still painted by war. The scrap yard a pile of torn limbs, needles embedded in phalanges divorcing finger from nail the soil still grieves .

Infants don't see the sun.
Autumn leaves with fleeting lives.
a thousands hills with wooden crosses rooted in, What is beneath?

An old man sighs before the last breath departs
Chasing a wind of memories escaping dark pasts. Hands mirror fire remnants, scatter across the vast lands with red tears immersing the white grass .

Engulf me with melody only for a moment and I'll walk the forest of hunted wolves and despondent lions.

The once ambrosial aroma of frail lilies, a smothering hebenon hand. The rays shy away from the polygamy of reapers and senectitude relishing valiant men.

Immerse me in harmonious symphonies only for a moment and I'll tread the trench terrane with jubilent feet, blind to the alluring viper's habanera under lacerated hearsecloth worn by the forest.

God.
Creator of all things.
So Glorious and Beautiful that
not even the angels can look at Him.
The seraphim fly around His throne,
two of their six wings covering their faces.
They stir the Holy Waters into swirls and eddys of translucent rainbows. Then they sing and sing and sing of his Glory and Majesty. I believe not only because they were made to do so... but also because they glimpse His Shekinah Glory between their feathers!

Accolades to the Most High.
The river of life, The Fountain of truth,
where wisdom dwells and love is alive.
The true physician, salvifically laboring
to heal warped characters of
despondent creatures.
Will you drink from the eternal spring
and be revived?

There are many springs,
there are many wells,
from which to draw.
But they are empty holes
which cannot fill.
Broken cisterns...
which cannot hold water.
Will you come to Him?
To the True Well of all wells?
To the Fountain of Living Waters,
Who alone can quench your
soul's thirst?
All praise and glory be
to the One who alone is
The Water of Life.
All praise and glory and honour
to the One whose voice is like
the sound of many waters.
Will you come to Him?
That you might never thirst.
Again.


SoulSurvivor.
Jamie King.
The Faithful Dreamer*.

Why do say love is blind or is for fools?
You drown your blankets with seas from your eyes. Convincing yourself your chest is not one full of treasure, but needles at war with your heart.

Is this what you call love?
This is infatuation, it's lust, it's desire to benefit yourself with no regards for the one you burn towards.

Will you not learn from nature?
trees revive you with oxygen as you breathe. the rivers feed the clouds and the clouds rain and feed the rivers.

Where is sorrow there?
Where are the needles you curse?

Leave your sorrows, they are not worthy of You. Realise that Love is a circle of beneficence, sacrificing itself for the welfare of others.